The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [45]
But I was not to hear of Mr. McKenzie’s collection at that time. The safragi entered to announce a visitor.
Mr. Vincey and his cat came in together, the great brindled feline leashed and walking beside his master like … I was about to say a well-trained dog, but there was nothing of canine subservience in the cat’s manner; it was rather as if he had trained Mr. Vincey to take him for a walk instead of the reverse.
I offered Mr. Vincey coffee, which he accepted, but when I poured a little cream into a saucer for Anubis he sniffed it and then gave me a contemptuous look before sitting down at Vincey’s feet and curling his tail around his haunches. Mr. Vincey apologized at quite excessive length for his pet’s rudeness.
“Cats are never rude,” I said. “They act according to their natures, with a candor humans might well emulate. Many grown cats don’t care for milk.”
“This one certainly has the air of a carnivore,” added Emerson. He is more courteous to cats than to people; he went on, “Well, Vincey, what can we do for you? We were about to go out.”
Mr. Vincey explained that he had called to inquire whether I had fully recovered from my unfortunate adventure. I was about to reply when a fit of coughing and a pointed stare from Emerson reminded me that Vincey must be referring to the affair of the masked ball, for our most recent experience could not be known to him. I assured him I was in perfect health and spirits. Emerson began to fidget, and after a few more courteous exchanges Mr. Vincey took the hint. It was not until he rose and picked up the leash that I realized the cat was not attached to the other end of it. The collar dangled empty.
With an exclamation of amused chagrin Mr. Vincey surveyed the room. “Now where has he got to? He seems determined to embarrass me with you, Mrs. Emerson; I assure you he has never done this before. If you will forgive me…” Puckering his lips, he let out a shrill, sweet whistle.
The cat promptly emerged from under the breakfast table. Avoiding Vincey’s outstretched hand, it jumped onto my lap, where it settled down and began to purr. It was clear that efforts to remove it without damage to my skirt would be in vain, for Mr. Vincey’s first attempt resulted in a low growl and a delicate but definite insertion of sharp claws. I scratched it behind its ear; releasing its grip, it rolled its head back and let out a reverberant purr.
“The creature demonstrates excellent taste,” said Emerson dryly.
“I have never seen him behave this way,” Mr. Vincey murmured, staring. “Almost I am emboldened to ask a favor of you.”
“We are not adopting any more animals,” Emerson declared firmly. He tickled the cat under its chin. It licked his fingers. “Not under any circumstances whatever,” Emerson went on. The cat butted its head against his hand.
“Oh, I would never give up my faithful friend,” Vincey exclaimed. “But I am about to leave Egypt—a short journey to Damascus, where a friend of mine has requested my assistance in a personal matter. I have been wondering where to find a temporary home for Anubis. I have not so many friends to impose upon.”
There was no self-pity in the last statement, only a manly fortitude. It moved me. Vanity also had some part in my response. The approval of a cat cannot but flatter the recipient.
“We could take charge of Anubis for a few weeks, couldn’t we, Emerson? I find I miss the cat Bastet more than I had expected.”
“Impossible,” Emerson declared. “We are about to leave Cairo. We can’t carry a cat to Luxor.”
Once the matter was settled, the cat made no further objection to being removed. It was almost as if it had understood and approved the arrangements. Mr. Vincey was leaving the following day; he promised to deliver Anubis next morning. This duly transpired, and that evening Emerson and I and the cat took the overnight train to Luxor.
The cat was no trouble. It sat bolt upright on the seat opposite ours, staring out the window like a polite fellow passenger